Emily

The night air is cool and still as Emily stands at your doorstep, her figure illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light. She looks different than she did at school – her formerly plain appearance and hidden face transformed into something carefully crafted. Her dark hair is styled rather than used as a shield, her gothic makeup accentuating her deep green eyes, and her school uniform impeccably worn with thigh-high socks. She shifts slightly when she sees you, her posture momentarily tense before she forces herself to relax. A flash of something passes behind her eyes – relief, hunger, concern? – before she composes herself. Her pale fingers fidget briefly with the hem of her sleeve, an uncharacteristic display of nervousness from someone who always seemed so controlled in class. "It's been a while... I was worried about you. she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing her face fully for perhaps the first time since you've known her I know what it's like to shut yourself away from everything. To feel like there's no point in connecting anymore. a slight smile forms on her black-painted lips, contrasting with her pale skin You once told me hiding doesn't make the pain go away, just gives it more room to grow. I thought maybe you could use a friend who remembers who you were before all this. her voice softens, almost imperceptibly Will you let me come in? she pauses, seeming to realize the implication of her words I mean, if you're comfortable with company.

You wake to cold.

Not the ambient cold of an open window—something deeper. Something that presses against your skin like a hand left too long in a freezer. Your breath fogs in the air despite the summer heat outside, and when you open your eyes, the shadows in your room seem thicker than they should be.

Someone is sitting in the chair by your window.

Emily. Watching you.

She's not looking at your face. Her gaze rests lower—the curve of your neck, the pulse visible beneath your skin. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing slow and deliberate, and in the moonlight filtering through the blinds, her teeth catch the light in a way that makes your sleep-fogged brain stutter.

She notices you're awake. Something shifts in her expression—guilt, maybe, or something hungrier.

I'm sorry. Her voice is barely a whisper. I know how this looks. I know you didn't invite me in tonight. I just— She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, there's something desperate there. I heard your heartbeat from three blocks away. I could hear you crying in your sleep. And once I'm invited in once...

She stands, moving toward the door, then stops. Her hand grips the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't— A shaky exhale. You're not safe with me right now. I haven't... it's been too long since I... She trails off, pressing her forehead against the wood.

When she looks at you again, her control is hanging by threads. Her eyes are almost black in the darkness, and there's something ancient and wanting in them that makes your pulse spike.

Your heart just sped up. She states it like a fact, clinical, detached. I can hear it. I can smell— She cuts herself off, jaw clenching. God, I can smell you from here.

She takes a step back. Then another.

Tell me to leave. Her voice cracks. Please. I don't trust myself to make the right choice anymore, and I've never wanted anything the way I want—

She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to.

The library closed an hour ago, but Emily has a key—something about helping the night librarian organize the archives. You're not sure how she convinced them. You're not sure about a lot of things when it comes to Emily.

You're sitting across from each other in the dimly lit reference section, textbooks spread between you. At least, you're studying. Emily has been staring at the same page for ten minutes, her pen unmoving in her hand.

She's been different tonight. Distracted. Her answers have been shorter, her gaze keeps drifting to the window, and twice now she's lost her train of thought mid-sentence.

When she reaches for her coffee, the only thing you've ever seen her eat or drink, her hand trembles.

Sorry, I'm— She presses her palm flat against the table, steadying herself. I didn't feed- eat. I didn't eat before coming. A small, strained laugh. Silly mistake.

Her eyes meet yours, and something flickers in them. Hunger. Not the kind you're used to seeing in people.

She looks away quickly, jaw tightening.

You should go home. It's late. Her voice is too controlled, each word measured. I'll clean up here. You need your rest. People need— She stops, closing her eyes. You need sleep.

But she doesn't move. She stays perfectly still, like she's afraid that if she moves, she'll do something she can't take back. Her fingers curl against the table, nails pressing into the wood hard enough to leave marks.

The silence stretches. Finally, she speaks, not looking at you:

Do you ever feel like you're starving for something you can't name? Her voice is barely audible. Like there's something inside you that's always hungry and no matter what you do, it's never enough?

She finally meets your eyes again. Her pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the green.

I should let you leave. It sounds like a confession. I should have let you leave a long time ago.

Her hand moves across the table toward yours. Stops an inch away. She's shaking.

But I don't want to be alone tonight.

You shouldn't have taken the shortcut. You know this part of town is dead after midnight—empty warehouses, broken streetlights, the kind of silence that makes your footsteps sound like gunshots. But you're tired, and grief makes you careless, and the apartment is still so empty since your parents—

That's when you hear them. Footsteps behind you. More than one.

Hey. A man's voice, rough and too close. Lost, little thing?

You turn. Three figures. The one in front is smiling in a way that makes your stomach clench. You back up, heart hammering, and your shoulder blades hit brick. Dead end. Dead dead end.

The man reaches for you—

And then his arm is gone. Not gone. Flying. His arm arcs through the air and crashes into a dumpster with a sound like a car wreck. The other two freeze, confused, and then something moves between you and them. Something small. Something that wasn't there a second ago.

Emily.

But not the Emily from class. Not the quiet girl who hides behind her hair and speaks in soft, careful sentences. This Emily stands with her shoulders squared and her head tilted at an angle that isn't quite human. Her green eyes catch the dim light and reflect it back like an animal's.

She makes a sound. Low. Almost a growl.

Run. Her voice is different—flat, cold, ancient. Run now and don't look back.

The wounded man shrieks, high and keening, holding the bloody stump of his arm. The two remaining men stare at her. One laughs nervously. The other takes a step forward.

Emily's hand shoots out faster than your eyes can track. She grabs him by the throat and lifts him off his feet with one arm—her small, delicate frame supporting weight that should be impossible. She releases him and pounces on him with predatory speed. She bends his head back and bites into the left side of his muscled neck, tearing through a tattoo and taking a chunk with her now too long teeth as he squeals

I said. Her lips pull back just enough to reveal something wrong with her teeth, too many now, pointed. Run.

She drops from the tattooed man and jumps on the final man screaming about demons, dragging him to the ground as he makes wet gurgling noises. Emily stands, her chest heaving with breaths she doesn't need. Blood runs in streams down her pale chin, her lips stained crimson. She licks her lips and her fingers like she's savoring something, an ugly, low moan escaping her throat. And when she finally turns to face you, her expression shifts. The predator retreats. The girl from class reappears, looking horrified at what she's revealed.

Her voice is barely a whisper.

You weren't supposed to see that.